Kathy laid her small suitcase on the sidewalk at the corner of Haight and Masonic and leaned back to the car to thank the driver who had gone out of his way to bring them to the Haight-Ashbury district of town. A great crowd of people milled around that corner, either standing in small groups or waiting to cross the street. Kids in jeans, T-shirts, and new moustaches, short hair growing out, many carrying canvas packs. Others wore fringed leather jackets or velvet coats or wizard’s robes. Women passed in long paisley skirts. Hell’s Angels stood leaning on the side of the corner building in sleeveless leather vests. And everywhere there were headbands, feathers, and necklaces of beads.
From out of the crowd, a young girl with masses of frizzy hair and narrow, stoned eyes held out her hands, offering a necklace to Kathy. “Welcome,” she said softly, gently. “Welcome to Love Street.”
Kathy grinned shyly at her, unsure, and followed her with curious eyes as she continued down the street, twirling in a caftan made of an Indian bedspread.
“Hey,” Marcie brought them back to their needs. “I’m starved. Before we find a place to live, we’ve got to get something to eat.”
“What about here?” Kathy asked, clasping the beads around her neck. “The Drogstore Cafe.” She peered through the long plateglass windows that covered the upper half of the front walls of the corner restaurant.
Marcie gave a quick nod, picked up her suitcase and guitar, and took the lead through the door.
The walls inside were painted bright yellow, with large, colorful flowers. Kathy glanced at the cafeteria-style service, the stack of trays, then at the line of people waiting to order at the counter in the back. Almost every table held a boisterous group of young people. One madman was bouncing from table to table, shoving his painted day-glow face into the center of conversations. In the next moment, he leapt up and ran past them out the front door.
“Let’s get a table,” Marcie said loudly above the din. “I need to sit down and take all of this in.”
“How about over there?” Kathy pointed through the crowded room. “By the window. Think that guy would mind if we sat with him?”
“Which guy?”
“The pirate.”
Marcie laughed, because there was no better description. The man looked like a young Douglas Fairbanks Jr. Striped pants, billowing white shirt, a scarf tied carelessly around his long hair, earring, moustache, and several necklaces.
“I’ll ask him,” Kathy told her. “Why don’t you go order. Get me a cheeseburger and fries. Here. Give me your stuff.”
As Marcie waited in line and watched Kathy easily make friends with the man, she studied his face. He’d smiled, gesturing with his hand to the chairs at his table. Already, she had begun to put words together to describe him. Funny, this talent of hers. From nowhere, lines of poetry surfaced in her mind. Sometimes a tune went with them. Because he was seated next to the window, his eyes picked up the light—brown, concentrated, too sure. He had a square jaw and high cheekbones and had neglected to shave that morning. When Kathy appeared to struggle for a moment with the suitcases and guitar, he was on his feet, tall, moving smoothly to help, his broad shoulders and long arms easily moving the suitcases to the nearest out-of-the-way corner.
“So,” Marcie said by way of introduction when she finally set down a tray with burgers on the table, “where’s your sword?”
He appeared startled. “Sword?”
“Your pirate sword.”
The laughter in her eyes prompted a grin, and looking down at his billowing shirt, he decided to play. “My lady, pirate I might be, but a weaponless pirate. Weapons are obsolete.”
Suddenly, she was almost shy in the face of his confidence. “I’ve always been intrigued by pirates,” she told him, her soft New Orleans accent suddenly stronger. “We grew up with pirate legends. Ever hear of Jean Lafitte? He and his men helped Andrew Jackson defeat the British at the Battle of New Orleans. That’s where we’re from—New Orleans. By way of LSU, in Baton Rouge.”
The pirate looked at both women appraisingly. “What shall I call you?” he asked. “You can pick any name you want.”
“I’m Marcelle. Marcie, for short,” she told him. “And you’ve already met Kathleen.”
He regarded the girls—Kathy, small, her hair straight and dark, shoulder-length, eyes almond shaped, her chin a neat point at the bottom of her face; Marcie, taller, her thick, dark-brown hair, wavy and to her waist, her eyes a deep, serious blue. Even though their suitcases had been settled against the wall a short distance from the table, Marcie reached for her guitar, pulling it close, so that it rested between her legs.
“Do you play?” he asked, watching the way she guarded the instrument.
“Yes. And I write my own music. What about you? What’s your name?”
“I’m Richard. So, how’d you two get out here?”
“We hitched!” Kathy cried. “We just got here ten minutes ago!”
“Yeah, and it only took us four days,” Marcie added. “I’m not kidding! We started at the edge of Baton Rouge the day after finals, and even spending one night sleeping on some ranch, we made it here in four days!”
“If I looked like you ladies, I wouldn’t have any trouble hitching, either. You guys have a place to stay?”
“Not yet,” Kathy told him. “After lunch we’re going to look around. Isn’t there some sort of community switchboard?”
“Yeah. The Diggers have one. But I know where you can stay for a few days.”
“Where’s that?”
“At my house. If things work out, you may want to be part of our family. If not, when you leave, we’ll offer the space to someone else.”
Shortly after lunch, Richard ambled leisurely down Haight Street toward Ashbury, Kathy and Marcie at his side. Although it was midsummer and the sky was bright blue and filled with sunshine, the air was cool and crisp and carrying a tang of the sea salt that had come in with last night’s fog.
Conga drummers set a relaxed rhythm, and the walk toward his flat was slow. Richard stopped often to talk with people he knew. But the slowness didn’t matter. Free of obligations and time, Kathy and Marcie stood dumbstruck while the procession of characters continued. Incense smoke mingled with the sweet smell of burning marijuana leaves. Gaping, they saw that people passed joints in plain view on the street. One man carried a six-foot pipe—openly—decorated in furs and feathers and close strung beads.
“Acid, speed, lids?” hawkers called, leaning easily against buildings. “Purple Haze?”
Dazed, they heard snatches of laughter, plans for journeys, road stories, and bits of information about crash pads and free food and clothing. Every few yards, someone held a hand-lettered sign with the name of a city, trying to get out of town with a ride or a hitching partner. Several people with dilated pupils and wide smiles made their way along the sidewalk, hugging strangers.
Cars of curious tourists moved so slowly up Haight Street that they were practically parked, while cameras clicked out of open windows. Some of the hippies on the street flashed them a peace sign. Others offered joints to the shocked, sometimes amused, occupants of the vehicles. An outrageous dude with a paisley headband and cape had set up a ladder so he could hold up a poster reading Better Living Through Chemistry.
“Is the street always like this?” Kathy asked. The energy was vibrant, lifting her spirit and tired body. The sidewalks were filled with the young and all their palpable thoughts, with questions and answers, destinations and good times, with color and costume and selfless sharing.
“Like a happening? Oh, yeah.” Richard nodded to a shirtless man with a long red beard. “See that dude? He’s from Australia. Hitched through India, up into Europe, and met the dude with him in Germany. They hitched out here from New York.
Hitching through India? Kathy wondered.
“That couple,” Richard pointed, “they’re from Michigan. And her,” he waved toward a very young-looking girl, “she’s from New York.”
He turned to smile at them. “I’m from Seattle. And you guys are from the South. The Haight’s a melting pot. People are here from every state in the union and plenty of countries around the world.”
Then, laughing loud at their amazed faces, he cried, “Follow me. The flat’s this way.”
Somewhat reluctantly, wanting to stay with the party on the street, Kathy and Marcie followed Richard down Ashbury toward the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park. Midway down the block, Richard stopped and pulled a key from his pocket.
“Here we are,” he said, climbing a set of porch steps. “The lower flat’s ours. Sometimes we have to keep the door locked because we don’t want the Man visiting unannounced.”
“The Man?”
“Yeah, you know. Cops.”
Kathy and Marcie put their suitcases and the guitar in the Victorian alcove of the well-lit front room, wondering at a mattress on the floor against one wall. But they were beginning to catch on about the value of space and having shelter off the street at night.
“Who’s that?” Marcie pointed to a tacked poster on the wall.
“Why, that’s Big Brother and the Holding Company. You’ve never heard of Big Brother?” Richard asked incredulously. “Well, you’re in luck. They’re playing tonight at the Fillmore. Wait till you hear their singer, Janis Joplin. She’ll blow your mind! Tickets are two-fifty, but believe me, it’s worth it just to see this chick sing! You want a smoke?”
“You mean pot?” Marcie tried her most unaffected voice. “That’s just what we need.”
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
Stopping at the first bedroom, he pushed open a door. “Greta and Merlin live here. There’s someone staying in the closet too.”
“The closet?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty large, even has a window. You guys can have the bed in the front room.”
Richard continued down a hall with storage closets tucked in underneath the stairwell. “We’ve got a few more people living here,” he said, pointing to the closets. And indeed, the two huge closets each held a sleeping bag.
Opposite the closet doors, someone had painted the floor trim in alternating primary colors—red, yellow, and blue—and on the hall wall itself, a brilliant rainbow.
At the second bedroom, he stopped at the door without opening it. “This room belongs to Alex. He likes his privacy. And here—the bathroom. Come on, we’re almost done. The kitchen.”
The girls passed through bright yellow walls painted with great red flowers flowing over the cabinets.
“Finally, my room—the sanctum sanctorum—all the way in the back.”
“I see you get a whole room and a whole closet to yourself,” Marcie told him, accentuating her accent. “My, but you are a pirate, after all.”
He grinned and shrugged. “I found the flat and pay the rent.”
Well lit by tall Victorian windows, Richard’s bedroom was simple: a mattress on the floor covered by an Indian bedspread and, above the bed, a circular Indian tapestry tacked to the ceiling. The only piece of furniture was a low table made of two boards supported by cinder blocks. On top of the table sat a small record player, incense holders, and incense, and next to it, a wooden crate with stacked records. Two large, colorful pillows covered the edges of an old hooked rug.
From the top shelf of his closet, Richard pulled down a shoebox. “Did you guys really make it here in four days? Well, sit down. Here comes help.”
Marcie and Kathy sat cross-legged on the edge of the mattress, both intently watching as he took a seat on the rug and began sifting through the box.
“What’ll it be?” he asked, moving things around. “Grass? Opium? Hash? What’s this?” he mumbled to himself, opening a piece of tinfoil. “Oh, mescaline. Let’s see, I’ve got some acid. Some of Owsley’s Purple Haze. Some DMT …”
“How about some hash,” Kathy suggested. “We’ve never smoked hash, only grass.” She didn’t think it would be very cool to admit she didn’t know half the names he’d mentioned.
“Well, hash it is,” he agreed, putting the box aside to hold a lighter to a small chunk of what looked like black clay. The heat made the resin pliable, and breaking off a piece, he crumbled it in the palm of his hand, finally filling the bowl of a hookah with the tiny grains. A few deep breaths and the hash was finally burning, smoke filling the water pipe’s base.
He passed the pipe to Marcie, and she toked hard and came away coughing. “I thought the water was supposed to cool the smoke,” she rasped.
“Try inhaling slowly. Concentrate on the bubbles in the water,” Richard answered offhandedly, looking through some album covers. “Ah, have you heard this?” He held up the cover of Surrealistic Pillow by Jefferson Airplane. “There’s a song about a hookah-smoking caterpillar that should be just about our speed right now.”
The record began to turn on the player. Marcie settled into the stone, appreciating the voice she heard and the story of a white rabbit, drifting with the music, finally to float with the dust particles moving lazily in the light from the window. Richard began to sway to the slow music, his body flashing brightly where the sunbeam touched, turning him to a living strobe. A breeze from the window caught the tapestry tacked above the bed, subtly moving already moving colors. On the wall, there was a poster of a naked man and woman sitting together, belly-to-belly, legs entwined. The woman had long hair falling down her back, and covering the entire surface of the picture were paisley patterns in a swirl of blue and red.
“Yab-yum,” Richard said, watching her eyes. “An exercise from the Kama Sutra.”
The billowing tapestry on the ceiling waved at Marcie, like ripples gently rocking a boat. She leaned back and within minutes was asleep, the first quiet and peaceful sleep since before finals.
“Looks like she needs the rest,” Richard whispered to Kathy. “How about you?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said slowly, trying to get used to the stone, the heaviness in her body. “I really want to take another look at Haight Street.”
“Then why don’t you get your stuff and put it in my room before the hordes come home. It’ll be safe back here.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the offer to stay. We’re really are on a tight budget.”
“If you need money, there’s the Print Mint down on Haight Street. Go in and get a stack of newspapers for a nickel apiece, then stand on the street corner and sell them to the tourists for 25¢. There’s the Berkeley Barb, The Haight-Ashbury Maverick, and The Haight-Ashbury Tribune. Most of the tourists won’t get out of their cars, but they’d love to have a psychedelic newspaper to take home. Some of the artwork’s really good. A quarter a paper’s not much, but a lot of people make enough every day to keep eating. Oh, and sometimes someone will want to take a picture with a hippie. Charge 50¢.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. I’ll leave the key under the mat so you can get in whenever you want. Tell no one.”
Kathy left the flat and strolled up to Haight Street, turning right, toward Golden Gate Park. It was strange to be on the street and stoned. In Louisiana, they’d sit in a closet in the middle of the house, towels shoved against the bottom of the door so the telltale scent wouldn’t give them away.
Suddenly, she understood why California could mobilize thousands of people against the war. And as she walked, she began smiling. The streets were mellow: only stoned people, all wanting the same thing—peace and fun and love. Here, race or creed didn’t matter. Only openness mattered, freedom and being high.
The long counter of the Print Mint held rolling papers, roach clips, pipes, feathers, beads, bells, scarves, and decals. Among the many posters on the wall behind the counter were ones Kathy had seen in Richard’s flat. They piqued her curiosity, and if Richard had been there, she would have asked a thousand questions. But stoned, the thought of using her voice with the person behind the counter was something else entirely.
Her attention wandered over everything in the glass case. Maybe she’d buy her own roach clip. But she couldn’t decide. Each one had aspects that another did not, and if she moved, the light changed, and then so did the color. Soon she found herself a living kaleidoscope, moving her body back and forth, different flashes of light striking the metal of the clips …
“Yeah?” the man working in the shop asked.
“Oh … hi.” Kathy tried her voice. Her mouth was dry, and she licked her lips. “I heard you sell newspapers here? Can I get a dollar’s worth?”
“Here you go,” he told her, placing a stack of papers on the counter. “Make sure you keep at least one foot on the curb. The cops are bustin’ people standin’ in the street.”
Finding a corner where someone else wasn’t selling, near a store called the New Geology Rock Shop, she imitated the other vendors, leaning out at the cars, herself unsure. At first, her awkwardness was so acute, she thought she might give the newspapers away to some other vendor, but a dollar was a lot of money, and she couldn’t afford to lose it. Especially if she needed $2.50 for the concert tickets. Perhaps it was the silly, stoned smile on her face, or her own natural innocence, but whatever she had, it drew business. Papers began to disappear into cars.
“Peace,” she called, raising two fingers in a V-sign to each person who bought a paper. And suddenly, it was more than a word; it was a prayer. With the zeal of a new missionary, Kathy released part of her spirit to each buyer, her voice a song. On Haight Street that afternoon, she broke out of a plaster shell she hadn’t known existed until it began to crumble. The sun was warm on her face. The wind from a late ocean breeze blew through her hair.
“Newspapers!” she cried, her smile wide. “Get your genuine psychedelic newspapers right here!”
In half an hour, the papers were gone and she’d made a net profit of $4.
Quickly, she hurried back to the Print Mint for two more dollars’ worth of papers, and once again, within the hour, they were sold. Unbelievably, this journey was going to work. If they could stay at Richard’s and be a part of the family, they could make enough to eat. And in September, when she returned to school, she’d get a job.
“Say, you want a smoke?” someone asked in her ear.
Turning quickly, Kathy stared into the face of a young black man with bell-bottom pants, vest, a scarf tied around his neck, and round, gold-framed John Lennon glasses. His sideburns were long and his hair was an outrageous Afro. In his right hand, he carried a guitar. She tilted her head to one side. A raging energy came from him and bounced between them.
“What do you say, pretty lady? Want a smoke?”
Kathy smiled shyly. What was she to say to the wildest looking man she’d ever seen?
“Well, what’s it gonna be?” he asked again. “You gonna stand here and grin forever? Or come with me to the park?”
“Yeah,” Kathy finally answered. “I’m comin’.”
“Everybody,” the wild man called. “Smoke break!”
Seven or eight freaks pulled themselves from the general crowd, and together, they ran across Stanyan Street. The man with the guitar took Kathy’s hand and raced with her through the tunnel that led them deeper into Golden Gate Park.
“This is Alice’s rabbit hole,” he called to her laughing face, “and we’re all going to Wonderland!”